Vanessa and Her Sister (25 page)

Lytton came for lunch today. I was very brave and boldly discussed the menu with Sophie (lent by Nessa, as our new and beastly cook is ill). She wanted lamb and I wanted fish and I prevailed. Do you remember Mr Strachey? The narrow-framed, rumpled, outrageous one with a frizzy red beard? He slides his spectacles farther down his steep-sloping nose when he intends to say something audacious. He and Nessa have been trading rude words for the past few months and are enjoying their déclassé behaviour immensely. Lately he has been salaciously graphic about his lost amour Duncan Grant (fey, artistic, vague) and his current but erratic amour Mr Maynard Keynes (bright, sleek, selfish). Nessa being married has somehow opened the door for such liberal, anatomical chat. Do you know, before Julian was born, the Bells of 46 Gordon Square received guests in their bedroom? While they were lying down on the bed? Hurry, my Violet! Swoop down like the great good eagle you are and snatch up your little wallaby from the maw of such brutish corporeal talk. Too bad eagles do not have marsupial pouches. Wallabies need snug pouches. I could curl up inside and read Swinburne.

And you, my decent Violet? I imagine you at Welwyn pottering amongst dear Ozzie’s azaleas, offering them sturdy biscuits of oatey common sense dipped in sweet milky wisdom. I am sure your brother owes his garden’s happiness to you, however splendid a gardener he may be. Adrian and I are holed up here in Fitzroy Square, the shipwrecked siblings awaiting rescue and speedy removal to Cornwall. Shall you visit, my dearest? Shall you come and smooth my soft wallaby ears and kiss my velvet wallaby nose?

Your
    

Virginia

18 April 1908—Cleeve House, Seend

“Her mind is so subtle,” Clive said, handing me the lighter. “I am not sure I realised before.”

He was reading a letter from Virginia, no doubt full of literary allusion and editorial questions. I am pleased they have this in common and hopeful that she might think better of him at last.

“Yes, it is subtle, but be careful. Do not mistake that subtlety for discernment. She can often miss what is right in front of her when she is aiming to impress and be clever.”

“Do you think—”

“Julian,” I interrupted. Instantly alert to the sound of his crying. I took the stairs two at a time.

After tea, I asked Clive what he was going to say before I rushed up to check on Julian, but he couldn’t remember.

Clive is sleeping in his dressing room here. If he stays with me, his sleep is fractured by either Julian’s crying or my listening for Julian’s crying. We breakfast and work together through the mornings as normal, but the afternoons and evenings I am alone with my sweet baby. Bugger. Have I become one of those mothers?

And
—Reading Virginia’s manuscript of her
Life of Violet
. It is rigorous but full of affection for Violet’s big-hearted, romping spirit. Virginia was kind enough to send two copies: one for Clive. Perhaps she is accepting him at last—a
relief
.

Later (three am, Julian just stopped crying)

Clive reminded me that Virginia leaves for Cornwall in the morning. I had forgotten. I forget everything this spring. Luckily, Clive remembered to book her seats on the train, as I forgot to make her travel arrangements. It was thoughtful of him. Clive does take good care of me and my family—just as he promised. I have married a good man.

I dread to think what Virginia packed for herself. I doubt she had the
courage to ask her new maid to do it for her. She is even more terrified of the servants than I am.

Sunday 19 April 1908—Seend, Wiltshire (late, alone in bed)

A note from Snow. Am I painting? No. I am daydreaming. And another scathing note from Virginia regarding Clive. She cannot forgive him for hurling me to these ravening, unlettered Wiltshire beasts. So she has not come round as I had hoped.

21 April 1908

Dearest Nessa
,

Two am. Keynes was here all evening—grindingly dull conversation but very good otherwise. And then a shock: midway through the strawberries and cream, he told me that he is off to Cambridge in the morning to visit my brother James and is travelling up with Duncan. Duncan? Duncan who is meant to be in Paris but is clearly here, Duncan? Duncan to whom I introduced the wretched Maynard? I feel doubly and possibly triply jealous. Jealousy is such a creeping low feeling. I ought to be thoroughly cosmopolitan and not mind, but mine is a parochial heart. Sharing is anathema when love is involved. I can only hope that Duncan will find Maynard to be a clodhopping piece of arithmetic and not an exciting, savage brute. I am so fruitlessly petty today.

Before she decamped, I was visiting your sister. She is a distracting creature: vain, brilliant, elusive, and bright. But she is not you. Come back at once.

Yours
,

Lytton

PS:
My cold has got worse.

WHERE THE LAND ENDS

22 April 1908—Cleeve House, Seend, Wiltshire (three more days)

I
have written to Virginia asking her to arrange to receive two boxes. The first: Julian’s bath and cradle, the second: his linen, clothing, and pram. I know she will be unravelled by such practical tasks. It was Clive’s suggestion. He thinks she is made of sterner stuff than she lets on and can manage just fine. I hope he is right.

He is enjoying her manuscript and says he sent her detailed editorial notes. Letters fly between them like summer bees. She is privately cruel about him, but as long as she is kind to his face, I am content. Peace at last.

And
—Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman is dead! His wife, Lady Sarah
Charlotte, must be devastated. They had no children and were, it is said, very much in love. Dead only nineteen days after he gave up politics. Nothing good ever comes from retiring from what you love.

25 April 1908

Dearest Nessa
,

My dear, he’s done it. Maynard has stormed in, and with a ruthless mathematical cruelty, he has stolen my darling boy. It seems it began when they went to visit my brother James a few weeks ago. Do you remember? Maynard dropped by my rooms in Belsize Park tonight and made gratuitous reference to my darling Duncan’s very pointy hipbone. A hipbone that I was not aware he was previously acquainted with and now obviously is. Mon dieu. Mother needs her smelling salts. I will save the anatomical precision for when I see you. Needless to say, I was destroyed. And yet, perversely, I wanted to hear everything. Why does one press for details that can only wound?

I long for Duncan. He is back in London. What exquisite torture to be so close to the exquisite torturer. I had hoped I was more recovered from him, but it seems I am not.

Yours
,

Lytton

27 April 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall

Virginia and Clive are out walking, and the nurse has taken Julian up for his nap. This is my time. The intellectuals depart for a long seaside wander, and I paint in the airy quiet. Julian takes up an enormous amount
of space for such a small creature, but I begrudge him none of it. He occupies my days and thoughts and ears and arms. I know Clive is feeling neglected, although he would never admit it, but I do not know what to do about it. Julian needs me so much just now, but it won’t always be like this. Surely Clive understands that?

Virginia is also feeling put out by the baby. She complains that I am not paying her enough attention. I do not fix her hair, read her new writing, visit her lighthouse, walk her shore, run her bath, fret over her, watch over her, ask after her as I should. I allow the housekeeper to bring her tea and offer her the cake that she will never eat—an insult. Virginia likes to reject the cake that
I
offer.

Later—everyone is asleep

It is not just Julian she resents but Clive. Tonight, when I thought she was asleep, I brought Clive a mug of cocoa. I set it on the desk where he was working and kissed his forehead. He wound his arms around my waist and pulled me into his lap, growling and biting my neck. It is a way he has. He chases and I run. I wriggled to get away and looked up to see Virginia on the stairs. Instantly, Clive released me. I was relieved. He can sometimes be belligerent and hold on to me even when she is watching; even though he knows it upsets her. Why rattle Virginia when it takes so long to unrattle her?

Virginia came down the last few stairs and sat primly on the faded gingham wing chair but refused to be engaged in conversation. We tried. She picked up a book that I knew did not interest her and would only answer the most direct questions: Are you
well
, Virginia?
Hungry
, Virginia?
Writing
, Virginia?
Bathed
, Virginia?
Tired
, Virginia? Have you read
this
article? Seen
this
star? Heard
that
cow?

When at last she did answer, it was alternately in Greek and German. Trying. Clive changed tack and, switching to French and Latin, asked her questions I did not understand nor care to understand. Sometimes her determination to disrupt is monstrous. Exasperated, I went to run a bath. Is that—

· ·

I
T WAS NOT
J
ULIAN
but the housekeeper’s son. I have developed oversensitive ears. I am sure I never heard so many babies crying before. In any case, I got out of the bath and was calmer. Clive had coaxed Virginia from her temper and nudged her towards speaking in English. Fragmented voices rose up the stairs.

“Galsworthy … better than Hardy.”